


Click to Submit

by executrix



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: BDSM, F/F, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29910606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: A mission to a planet where BDSM is institutionalized creates...exciting recreational opportunities
Relationships: Cally/OCF, Roj Blake/Kerr Avon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7
Collections: The House Always Sins





	Click to Submit

Inspired by Soft Power by x_los, remixed with permission

Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. (As You Like It III, ii)

1  
“Those people are dreadful,” Cally said. “Do we really need to do business with them?”

“As we’re the scum of the Galaxy,” Avon said, “We don’t receive many invitations.”

“I know!” Vila said hopefully. “We could just not do it!”

“It’s rather beautiful that you keep making the same suggestion when no one cares,” Avon said. 

Vila sniggered. Avon glanced at him, surprised. 

“It does seem... duplicitous,” Cally said. “I mean, we’ll be meeting with the government by day, and with their Resistance at night, so to speak.” 

“Ah. For run-of-the-mill larcenists like Vila and myself, that is not an insuperable obstacle. One wonders how Blake justifies it.”

“It’s a matter of politics,” Blake said mildly, setting the tray of mugs of tea down on the console. “Arrcul’s ties with the Federation are quite tenuous, Avon, and your assistance will push them fur-ther toward non-alignment, or even outright support for us. And as for the rest, it’s a simple matter of justice.” 

Arrcul had somehow learned about the Liberator’s deflector shields. Rather, the planet’s governing oligarchy had learned that a new technology was available that, at a minimum, would give Arrcul bragging rights over the other planets in the sector. The Arrcul Grand Directorate offered a tidy sum of money for Avon to, so to speak, pimp the Arrcul SpaceForces’ rides. Jenna pointed out they didn’t actually need the money. Blake pointed out that apart from the volunteers on the Liberator who would take it off his hands, there were plenty of worthy causes.

“It’s not dangerous, is it?” Vila asked.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Blake said. “It’s the government that’s hiring us.”

“Hiring me,” Avon said.

“That’s the best argument! Can you pass up a chance for people to tell you how clever you are?” Blake asked, his mouth quirking to a Mona Lisa smile as he heard the faint click of Avon’s teeth when he opened his mouth and then shut it.

2  
Cally and Blake were on the watch when the questionnaire appeared on the terminals at their flight deck positions. They were glad to have something new and interesting to do. 

“Well, I suppose it takes all sorts to make a Universe,” Cally said. 

“They are very particular about what sorts are accepted, and the wrong sorts being kept under control,” Zen said. 

As they worked their way through the lengthy document, Cally giggled from time to time. Blake kept clearing his throat and, Cally thought, looked rather... flushed. 

3  
“Information,” Zen said. “Two of the applications for travel documents to Arrcul have been approved unconditionally. The third is conditional on the Submissive applicant being in the custody and control of one of the two Dominant applicants.”

“Will that be a problem?” Gan asked. He frowned. He knew that Avon didn’t like having anyone around when he was doing technical work, and wouldn’t like to be chaperoned.

Zen waited for a moment to heighten the drama. 

“The passport issued to Roj Blake is conditional.” 

Jenna almost aspirated a Custard Cream. Vila offered to perform the Heimlich Manoeuvre. She said over her dead body. He piously intoned that that was what he was trying to prevent. Once Blake could see that Jenna was all right, he was glad of the diversion, since the less intelligent and informed discussion of the topic there was, the happier he would be. 

“How’d they know what sort of how’s-your-father they like to get up to?” Vila asked. “Might be in their criminal records, I suppose, but how’d Arrcul get hold of those?”

“They sent us questionnaires,” Cally said. “It was really very interesting as a psychological test. I did wonder at first if it were culturally specific, but a bit of research showed that the test has been validated for quite a few species and societies.”

All eyes turned to the other end of the sofa. 

“Oh, that?” Avon said. “I had Orac fill it out for me.”

4  
Vila chucked the pair of suede boots, one of whose soles had separated, into the disposal. En route to the shelf that held the boots in his size, he found Avon using a vacuum hose to flat-pack his clothes for the trip. 

“If he’s playing at being your slave, then why doesn’t he have to pack the valises?” Vila asked.

“It’s more complex than that. First of all, he’d simply cram everything into a couple of paper sacks, and I’d never get the wrinkles out of my best negotiating costume. This way, I’m enjoying Blake’s simple trust and reliance on me to kit him out just as I see best.”

“Send pictures?”

“You’ll just have to use your imagination, Vila. If you’ve got any.”

5  
“Yes,” Avon drawled to the welcoming party. “This appears acceptable,” he said, as he examined the lobby’s eight-foot-diameter chandeliers and multi-colored intaglio of rich marbles and semi-precious minerals from around the galaxy. “Are you satisfied, Your Grace?” he asked Cally, who silently reminded Blake to stay behind and refrain from offering his tuppennyworth. Cally nod-ded and waved a languid hand. 

Blake gratefully handed over the luggage to a bellman. He wondered what Avon needed for a flying visit that weighed so much. Another bellman took Cally’s two suitcases. Blake surmised that she had packed evening dresses with wide skirts or crinolines. He plodded up the staircase behind the luggage. Avon and Cally had already arrived at the double suite with two bedrooms and a parlor in between. Cally opened the communicating door and supervised the transfer of her clothes from suitcases to armoire and dresser. Avon prowled around the bedroom, rearranging the things in the minibar.

“Does ‘e”— the bellman jerked his head in Blake’s direction —“sleep in the Sub quarters, or with you, sir?”

Avon looked down at the floor and scuffed the carpet with the toe of his boot. 

“This looks quite suitable. He’ll sleep here, with me.”

“Yes, sir,” the bellman said, bowing when he saw the size of the tip. Blake, standing with his eyes modestly downcast, was able to see the colour of the notes. He was torn between labour solidarity and protesting the drain on the treasure room. 

The door closed with a deferential click. The room communicator vibrated with the sound of the Dressing Gong. 

“We ought to dress, then,” Avon said, a smile trying to emerge. He hung up his rank of garment bags (‘Tuesday Evening’, ‘Wednesday Daytime’, ‘Wednesday Evening’, ‘Thursday Morning’ and ‘Contingency’). He went into the bathroom to dress, shedding the jacket from his traveling clothes. He left it on the floor for Blake to pick up.

Blake unzipped his small suitcase, in a sad, mostly brown, tartan. It contained only one outfit, so unpacking didn’t take long. 

“You absolute bastard,” he said, quietly enough to avoid triggering the listening devices.

“Wear the jacket,” Avon said. “You’ll be waiting on us at a formal dinner, after all. Oh, and the pad-lock’s just for show, it fastens — and unfastens — in the back with a plain sliding clasp. Be sure and lift the collar — when you’re wearing a shirt, that is — in case anyone wonders if it’s secure enough.”

“Humiliating enough,” Blake said between his teeth.

“Oh, that goes without saying.” 

Cally, who never needed more than five minutes to dress and put on her makeup, went into the parlour. She considered opening the minibar to see if there were any interesting local beverages on offer (there was a souvenir shelf of empty cans in her cabin, from her travels). There might be something like crackers to dilute the effect of the alcohol that was certain to be supplied at the banquet. 

“Cally, you look lovely,” Blake said. “The wardrobe room has done you proud.” Her panniered bro-cade gown and velvet shoulder cape complemented Avon’s velvet suit and brocade sash, in re-verse colourways (sage-green gown, cognac cape, mink-brown suit, green sash).

“So do you,” Cally said, conscientiously trying to avoid giggling. Blake’s heavy brogues dug into the carpet, topped by knee socks of thick cream wool, in an elaborate Aran pattern. Moving upward, there was a kilt in a tartan (Hunting Travis?), a sporran, a black velvet jacket with cut-steel buttons, a linen shirt, and a plaid. 

“They’ll be expecting you in the Servant’s Hall,” Avon said, gesturing toward the back stairs and then taking Cally’s arm and heading toward the elevator. 

{{Avon, you are a fiend.}} 

“Oh, don’t you think Blake looks rather fetching?” Avon said, imperiling his arteries with unmelted butter. 

“That’s not the question.”

“And don’t I deserve credit for exercising my power mercifully? I’m sure the wardrobe room has a comprehensive range of leopard-skin loincloths. Perhaps only small fittings, but that would be a feature, not a bug.”  
However little Blake thought of Avon’s costuming choices, as he glanced around the servant’s hall while the tasks were parceled out, he was grateful that he was permitted at least to be fully dressed and to wear shoes. 

The Dominants of Arrcul take banqueting very seriously. Instead of stupefying themselves with cocktails before a ceremonial meal, they proceed immediately to the table. One of the seven crys-tal glasses at each place setting holds an herbal aperitif. The smallest glass at the end holds a mouthful of digestive bitters. It takes half an hour or so to get through the toasts. 

Avon and Cally both put their hands over the top of their Light Red Wine glasses to deter a refill. The sommelier glided past Blake, to the next place at the table. 

The footman behind the chair at Avon’s left, holding a platter that had been well-heated in an at-tempt to keep the food at least blood-heat after its long journey from the kitchen, shifted from foot to foot. He tried to attract the attention of his Dominant, who was in the middle of a very long story of so-far mysterious import. The servant knew what was expected of him, but he also knew that he’d be in trouble if the service was less polished than the silver. 

“Would you care for the entrée, sir?” he asked deferentially. The whole table froze in horror, which at least had the virtue of shutting down Velgruner’s narration. (He was the CEO of the Velgruner Spacefaring Line; it was just as well Jenna wasn’t there, because she had knocked off several of its vessels.) Velgruner flushed the colour of the Big Red Wine, or indeed the Ruby Port, and pushed himself up from the table. He bowed his head in the direction of the head of the table. 

“I am very sorry,” he said. “I shall apply a suitable penalty. Immediately.” He grabbed the leash dangling from the servant’s collar (the collar, a harness, and gladiator sandals were all the servant wore). The servant had just enough time to shove the platter at Blake, whose hands were already full, before he was dragged out of the dining room. 

{{How dreadful. And... I wonder, can that really be sanitary?}}

“A put-up job,” Avon whispered reassuringly. Cally quirked an eyebrow. {{I hope you’re not just whistling past the graveyard to make yourself feel better.}} Then she realised that Blake was holding two sizzling silver platters, and she hastened to help herself and then Avon to filets of huipterox in sauce chasseur and gratinee phlorba root so Blake could proceed down the table. 

6  
Avon emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in one of the hotel’s inch-thick terrycloth robes. 

“Get the shirt washed and pressed tomorrow, and have them steam the jacket,” he said, handing Blake his frock coat and shirt, glaring masterfully to prevent Blake from pointing out that he had enough other clothes to equip a platoon. 

Momentarily forgetting to create additional work for Blake, Avon hung up his trousers on the trouser press built into the cupboard, and opened the door of the suite minutely to put out his boots to be shined. 

“Oh. Did they feed you? I think there are some snacks in the minibar, or you can call Room Service and pretend to order something for me.”

“Some sort of freshwater fish, barley, and greens,” Blake said. “Family meal, they call it. I rather think Cally would have preferred that simple, wholesome meal to the banquet.” Blake, who had changed back into his underclothes, stood with his bare feet planted into the carpet, his hands on his hips. “You didn’t bring any night clothes for me.” 

Avon shuddered fastidiously at the generally dispirited appearance of Blake’s intimates; they were not of the sort one would care to be discovered in if hit by a tram.

“Nor for myself,” Avon said. “I hate pyjamas.”  
“I suppose you’ll let me sleep on the sofa, Av’n,” Blake said. “Even you wouldn’t carry through the pantomime of making me sleep on the floor.” 

“For God’s sake, that sofa is only about a meter and a half long,” Avon said. “Don’t play the martyr.” He started piling pillows down the middle of the bed — about three times the width of the Liberator bunks. “There. Pretend it’s a sword. Your virtue is safe. If that isn’t enough to allay your fears, I’m sure Cally would put you up for the night.”

7  
When Avon snapped awake at what the bedside clock told him was five a.m. local time, he was horrified to discover that the pillows down the middle had all been pushed aside. He and Blake were both face-down, with Avon’s arm draped over Blake’s shoulders. Avon snorted, rolled out of bed, cinched the dressing gown firmly around his waist once again, and went into the bathroom. 

The gilded taps dispensed a purple fluid, with a slight gleam. (Avon had to trust it was water, there wasn’t a warning for humanoids to stay out of it.) It turned green when he poured in a capful of bath essence. He hung the dressing gown on the hook behind the door and slid into the water. He rolled up one of the thick white towels and put it behind his neck, and draped a wet washcloth over his forehead.

Avon felt his hands and arms float upwards in the water. The washcloth was opaque enough to block out most of the light. {{I feel as if I didn’t have to be here. I could be anywhere.}} He thought about leaning forward, with Blake wringing the washcloth out and trailing water between his shoul-der blades, the water sopping Blake’s cuffs until he had to put down the washcloth and roll back his shirt cuffs to show wrists and a few inches of forearm...

Avon threw away the washcloth, pulled out the bath plug, and launched a cold shower as soon as the water level dropped to his ankles. 

When he concluded it was hopeless, he climbed out of the bathtub and wrapped another towel around his waist; there were stacks of the damned things. The whole wall over the double sink was mirrored. {{Blake could be standing behind me, I could brace my hands on the countertop.}} 

“Oh, hell,” Avon said, and made the mistake of opening his eyes. Of course Blake wasn’t there at all, and his orgasm, although by that time inevitable, was disappointing. {{Well, what do I expect at my age?}} He looked down. “You need reading glasses,” he said. “That was twenty-forty at best.”

Avon went back to the bedroom where, by now, Blake was awake. 

“Good morning,” Blake said threateningly. He had put on his ordinary trousers. 

“I was having a bath,” Avon said. 

“Oh, is that it? I thought we’d teleported to the rain forest.” 

Avon took a garment bag into the bathroom and returned resplendently arrayed in cobalt blue bro-cade and mouse-gray velvet precisely calculated to coax money out of the Arcullian treasury.

8  
Blake switched on the music system to cover the sound of their voices, as Avon located the main listening device for the suite and wired in a chip filled mostly with soothing silence, but also with bits of music, equally inane Cally-Avon conversations, and the occasional brusque order beginning with a strident “Blake!” that Avon had thoroughly enjoyed recording in order to add artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative. Avon gave Cally a copy of the chip for her own room, minimally altered. They’d be back on the ship and far away before the security service could get too suspicious anyway.

“It’s Cally!” and {{It’s me!}}. Avon looked through the peephole. It was in fact Cally, so he un-clenched his fist from the gun in his jacket pocket. They all sat down on the bed; the sofa and armchairs were far enough away that they would have had to shout.   
Cally looked at Blake’s unburdened throat. 

“Good, I’m glad you took that foul thing off.” 

“Just as long as you remember to put it back on when it’s needed for camouflage,” Avon said. 

“Oh, well, they’ll just blame you for not taking proper care of him,” Cally said. 

“Where’s the meeting?” Blake asked. 

“Here, actually,” Cally said. “I was a bit worried that it might be a trap, but after all, it is a luxurious hotel with a large staff of Submissives, and plenty of suppliers who might send a Submissive on an errand. Probably no one will so much as ask for a pass, so it doesn’t take any great skill to bodge one up.”

9  
“It’s all right,” the cell’s Sergeant at Arms said, locking the door of the luggage storeroom behind him. “You’re safe here.” 

Cally dropped the leash as if it burned her hand. 

“This is Roj Blake,” she said. “Who of course needs no introduction.” 

This was fortunate, because none of the two dozen or so members of the Consolidation Party cell (perching on cabin trunks, piles of suitcases, and folding lawn chairs stored until after the monsoon season) paid much attention to his brief speech about the extent to which the rewards of fighting the Federation outweighed the risks. 

“I feel about as much use as a spare prick at a wedding,” Blake whispered to Cally after the brief spate of applause. 

{{Auxiliaries might come in handy if you married someone with fourteen Clonesisters!}}

The meeting kept strictly to the agenda, because most of the Party members would be in dead trouble if they were late back from their lunch break. Cally, aware of the time limit, spoke with breathless haste about the Liberator’s plan for backing up indigenous cells, and how to communi-cate a planned Action securely.

Everyone in the Consolidation Party cell had been most interested in what she had to say, and had peppered her with questions. One woman in particular had an unsophisticated but very acute analysis. As the meeting dispersed, Cally asked the young woman to stay behind. She had bobbed hair, just a bit too orange to be caramel, and a gap between her front teeth that Cally found attrac-tive until she reminded herself that it probably reflected class-based limitations on access to child-hood dental care. 

“It’s not that what Blake said was bad,” the young woman said. “But face it, no one round here’s going to listen to a Sub, are they? A Dom wouldn’t because they think they’re Lord Muck, no one’s going to tell them anything, and why would we think another Sub had anything to contribute? Makes the meeting a bit boring, but at least if nobody’s listening nobody’s starting a fight, and that means we don’t get the rozzers round and they don’t notice that we’ve got Subs crammed in here like sardines in a tin.”

“What’s the legal limit?”

“Three’s company, four’s incitement to riot.”

“Must you rush off, or do you have a bit of time to talk more? I’d be happy to treat you to a slap-up meal here in the hotel.”

“I needn’t be at work for an hour, and it’s just a three-hour shift,” she said. Cally extended her hand to shake. “I’m Cally of Auron, of course.”

“Gertrude Felschnitt,” the slightly burly rebel said, bobbing a curtsey. 

Before Cally could stop herself, she blurted, “You don’t look like...”

“Ta. It’s the government, you see. They said that Subs didn’t have valid names, they had to be given one by a proper Top. And you need a tax stamp for that. The nicer the name, the more they charged, and Grandpa couldn’t afford better. I’ve got three brothers and a sister, and wouldn’t you know it, my parents pushed the boat out for the boys. Though, fair dos, with five you’d have to be a ruddy millionaire not to have a Eugene or so in the batch.” 

The waitress gently set down a demitasse of espresso and tiny saucer with two macarons in front of Cally. Then, not bothering to hide her disdain, she pushed the plate of pavo-and-bacon sandwiches and the silvery tulip-shaped dish heaped with three colors of ice cream with grothberry sauce, drizzled with miso, in front of Gertrude. 

“What work do you do?” Cally asked politely. 

“Shopgirl,” Gertrude said. “This is my uniform, wore it because it’s the best thing I have. Well, it should be, they stopped a week’s wages out for it.” The uniform was a maroon blazer, a maroon and gray plaid pleated skirt, a white blouse, a striped repp tie, and Cuban-heeled patent leather shoes with an instep strap. 

{{You look very fetching in it.}}

Gertrude licked a bit of mayonnaise off her lip, then grinned at Cally watching her. 

“People, hmmm? I mean, look at sex. It’s so nice, and anyone can do it, and you don’t need any money, you can just make each other happy. So what do they do? Make a load of rules that are all codswallop just so a few people can take advantage. And if you’re a Sub, unless you’re lucky enough to have a regular collar and with someone you really fancy, you end up just the scenery in your own life. I mean, just because I like to be bossed around when I’m a having a bit of fun doesn’t mean that I haven’t a brain in my head, or that I want to be bossed around all day and, half the time by an eejit, at that. And I suppose Blake and your lot would blame it all on the Federation, but honestly, the ones in charge round here haven’t much time for the Federation.”

“Where I come from, it doesn’t matter much more whether you’re Dominant or not than what color your eyes are,” Cally said. “Rather the same ratios, in fact — most of us are Dominant, and most have brown eyes. But there’s no social detriment in Submission. In fact, there might not be enough Submissives to go around! — so it can be rather an advantage.”

“Do they make an almighty tizzwozz about girls liking girls?”

“Oh, that’s not why I left, if that’s what you mean. No, for the last few generations, we’ve been cloned, not born the old-fashioned way. And it takes a lot longer than that to re-wire an entire peo-ple’s psyches, but if you’re a man you don’t have to worry about whether your wife expects you to leave your money to another man’s children. And if no one’s being born the so-called natural way, then you might not set a lot of store in setting apart ‘natural’ and ‘unnatural’ desires.”

Gertrude chased the last triangle of sandwich with a draught of fizzy water, and plowed into the Knickerbocker Glory. 

“Wish that were true here! I mean, not that anybody I know has anything to leave to their kids, but it doesn’t stop them being jealous. And, well, if I hadn’t enough trouble, it turns out there’s something I really like, that lots of girls don’t.”

Cally raised an eyebrow.

“Feet!” 

“I never thought much about them,” Cally said. “Unless I was on a route march with new boots! I’m sure I could think of something, though. If...”

“Yes, please, ma’am!” Gertrude said. “You’re so pretty! I mean, it wouldn’t do you any harm to eat a few of these sandwiches instead of passing them out — ta very, though, I never get to eat in a place like this — but, yes.”

Cally uncapped her fountain pen, wrote out a Transit Pass (Post-Curfew Extension) like the one she had given Blake, shook her hand to dry the ink, and handed it to Gertrude. With a sigh, Cally folded the paper placemat along the lines, and tore along the perforations to make a temporary collar that would allow Gertrude to come up to Cally’s hotel room. Then she stopped off at the concierge desk to say that she was expecting a visitor. 

10  
“And the Duchess?” Telbruekh asked politely. He didn’t believe for a moment that Cally was a duchess, but he couldn’t help being a bit impressed just on the off-chance. He certainly didn’t have the nerve to accuse Avon of lying.

“Oh, you know the ladies!” Avon said. “Shopping! I’m sure her husband will be horrified when he gets the bill.” He took a quick glance at his datapad and launched into a lengthy explanation of ex-actly what would be required for Arrcul to equip its fleet with deflector shields. He really looked forward to the subsequent reveal of the price tag. 

He glanced over his shoulder and realized that Blake was kneeling a few feet behind him. Avon rubbed his own knee, under the table, sympathetically. Avon had seen Blake trigger a rock fall and tumble down into a crater, what, two missions back? Despite Cally’s acupuncture needles, Blake’s knee hadn’t been quite the same since. Avon looked up to the head of the table, snapped his fin-gers, and pointed at Telbruekh’s sub. 

“Fetch him a stool or something,” Avon said. “This is going to drag on all day, and I don’t want him useless at the end of it.”

Avon turned around and raised an eyebrow at Blake. 

“Thank you, sir,” Blake ground out. 

Avon nodded microscopically and turned back to the table. 

“Right. We were on Point 16.7. Don’t blame us if the equipment malfunctions as a result of natural disaster. And, in fact, if the natural disaster occurs prior to the completion of payments, we shan’t make any refunds, and you will pay us sixty percent of the insurance cover that you must maintain under... under... Point 34.9.”

“I don’t see why we should pay you anything at all,” Vonzwern said. “It’s our ships that will be damaged.”

“Well, you’ve got more ships than I’ve got weeks to work on this,” Avon said, “and they’re more easily replaced.”

“There hasn’t been a natural disaster in this Sector in a decade that would trigger Point 34.9,” Blake said, in his native woodnotes wild. “If that’s your concern, you can easily obtain reinsurance cover.”

Everyone at the table (other than Avon, who sighed) gasped. Avon pushed his hands down on the table, polished into a shine like a concert grand, and stood up, towering over Blake. He grabbed Blake’s shirtfront and shook it, and to a limited extent Blake, only stopping because he noticed the collar was about to slip loose. 

“You have humiliated me,” he said, quietly but ringing to the farthest corner of the room. “Now go, and wait for me and think about precisely what you deserve and how you can persuade me to spare you it. I suppose you want to provoke me into punishing you here and now. No doubt they would fetch me any implements I required for your discipline. But public humiliation would be a re-ward for you, wouldn’t it? Why, this is hire and salary, not revenge. Well, you shan’t have it. Now get out of my sight.” He waved a hand absently in Blake’s direction, and sat down, glad that Cally wasn’t there to tell him to stop flirting and get back to work.

The disturbance allowed Avon to continue negotiating alone, so he could raise the question of his rake-off, and where to deposit it offshore, higher on the agenda. Matters were soon concluded to the satisfaction of all those present. Avon hoped that Blake would be in their room, but then where else would he be? (He had knocked on the connecting door to Cally’s room, but the door was locked and she didn’t answer.)

“D’you know why they stopped everything to fetch that stool I asked for, Blake?” Avon said. He was rather disappointed that, instead of kneeling in abject supplication while waiting for his return, Blake was sitting on the sofa watching the global newsfeed, supping the last cold dregs of a very large mug of tea. Some people had no sense of sportsmanship. “They saw what they had to respect. Authority.”

“A dog’s obeyed in office,” Blake growled.

“We’re onto something here, Blake, and I won’t have this wrecked by your... thespian inadequa-cies,” Avon said. 

Blake glared at the wastebasket, and pulled out a grease-spotted paper bag that had held a shared midnight snack of zamuda fritters rolled in powdered sugar. 

“My inadequacies? You couldn’t act your way out of this,” Blake said. “God, sometimes I wish I were an Auron. Although I don’t suppose you’d pay any more attention than when I’m speaking.”

Avon did have just enough sense not to boast about how thoroughly he had diverted Blake’s atten-tion from the financial legerdemain, although he hated to let Blake think he had won the point.

11  
Meanwhile, Cally had a shower, wrapped herself in a dressing gown, set the stage, and then settled down with her redewriter to do some paperwork. 

Just on time (of course) there was a timid tap on the door. With a conspiratorial giggle, Cally opened the door and bundled Gertrude inside. After checking the bits of clothing and office supplies were still artistically piled in front of the various camera lenses, Cally triggered the sound effects chip. She grabbed the lapels of Gertrude’s blazer, pulled her in for a kiss, and then hit the back of her legs on the edge of the mattress. They fell onto it, bounced off the cloudlike surface, and rolled over and over, kissing and cuddling. Cally was careful not to wrench any buttons open hard enough to break the thread. 

Gertrude got a hand free and patted the nearest billow of duvet. “Almost worth spending the time taking a nap!” she said. “ALMOST!”

Cally bent her knee and pulled her leg out from Gertrude’s pleated skirt, stretching her leg toward the ceiling. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, sweetie. We don’t go anywhere there’s a proper salon. My feet get into a shocking state! I need a pedicure!” 

Cally had set up a bowl of sudsy water (marvelling that now she’d seen everything! Purple water!) at the foot of the bed, with a few of the plush towels and a bottle of nail varnish from the hotel bou-tique. The most fashionable shades seemed to be green or greenish, which reminded Cally far too much of her field medic training about gangrene, so she picked a modest space-black-studded-with-starry-jewels instead. 

Cally spread her legs further, and was going to push Gertrude’s head down between her legs ex-cept there it was already. 

“Oh, sorry!” Gertrude said, lifting her head long enough for it to get pushed back down. 

“Golly, I felt that!” Gertrude said, a little later. “This’ll spoil me for girls who aren’t telepaths, I swear.” 

{{Sorry!}} 

“Oh, no, ma’am! I’m glad I got the chance.”

“Oh, you wicked girl!” Cally said, kicking at the basin of water enough to splash some of the suds onto a white towel sinking into thick beige carpeting. “Now look what you’ve done!” {{Too much?}}

“No, it’s lovely!” Gertrude said. “Mmm! You sound quite masterful. Mistressful. It’s very exciting.” 

“I suppose I could let you off just this once...” Cally said, with a twinge that of course there’d be only once.

“Yes, ma’am, you could, but if you want me to be really good, you should make me learn my les-son...”

“I like good, obedient girls. Nasty, disobedient girls make me sad. Stand in the corner!” Cally said. “Take down your knickers. Don’t let them fall, or it’ll be the worse for you. No, don’t do up your blouse! Think about how bad you’ve been, and how you deserve to be punished!” 

Cally glanced at the piles of paperwork on the desk. She thought she could finish up the ammuni-tion order in about ten minutes, which would be about right.

“I didn’t bring anything to discipline bad girls; I expected all the Sub girls here to be good and obe-dient.” As they both knew perfectly well, there was a Room Service menu, in a thick leather cover, that had given Cally a lot to think about. But apart from her belief in the wholesome, natural, and organic she knew she’d die of embarrassment if Vila ever came across that as a line item.

Cally spread one of the plush hand towels over one arm of the sofa, and got Gertrude arranged, with the intended awkwardness, sprawled over the arm of the sofa and hanging down the back. Cally took a long time to inch up the plaid skirt, then smacked hard enough for the stroke to ring like metal. Gertrude gasped appreciatively. Cally doled out blows slowly, side to side, and when she thought Gertrude was close to the edge, she pushed two fingers of her left hand inside her. Cally shoved her right hand, burning from the friction, between her legs, and squeezed until the heat completed the circle. 

“Turn over!” she said. “That’s right. Spread your legs.” Cally aimed a few stinging slaps as Gertrude ground delightedly back against the stiff fabric of her skirt. 

Cally moved back to the bed, lay down, and patted the bit next to her. 

“Come on up here,” she said. “I know you’ll be a good girl now, now that you’ve been corrected.” They clung and nipped and nibbled for a while, until Gertrude sighed and Cally realised that she’d have to leave soon to be home by curfew. 

As Gertrude reordered her clothes, Cally picked up the basin and tipped the water down the bath-room sink. She hung up her robe, and put on a pair of light grey leggings and a puffy heather-purple jumper, the soft fabric gliding over her singing skin. 

{{It’s all a bit silly...}}

“Fun, though!” Gertrude said.

Cally couldn’t help taking a last look through the peephole in the door, as Gertrude sauntered down the corridor. 

12  
“Arrcul agrees with you, Cally. You look very well,” Blake said. “So... relaxed, and happy.”

“It’s a lovely day,” Cally said. It was her turn to preclude discussion. “Perhaps there really are those Vita particles of Vila’s! Avon, why don’t we... go for a walk in the park!” she said brightly; no one needed a signal that they might be out of range of surveillance in the open air. {{Two meters behind us,}} she reminded Blake.

About a klick from the hotel was a magnificent park, with old-growth trees, velvety moss underfoot, a bandstand at each corner, gas lamps with bronze serpents twining around the standards, and benches sporting striped cushions in curlicued wrought-iron frames. 

At the banquet, Avon (glad that he had checked the lock on Blake’s collar before leaving) saluted the elderly baroness who had sat diagonally opposite him at the table. He shifted the leash to his left hand, and bent to kiss the dowager’s hand. 

She looked Blake up and down. 

“Splendid!” she breathed. She couldn’t reach Blake’s head to pat his curls, so she patted him on the shoulder. “The healthy peasantry of your planet have a rude magnificence!”

“Oh, you should see his brother,” Avon said. “Six centimetres higher at the shoulder, and that doesn’t even take the coiffure into account. I packed the travel size.” 

Cally raised the fur cuff of her Fortuny-pleated amethyst silk tea gown to cover the lower part of her face. 

13  
“I’d like to have seen you ordering Blake around and him going yes-sir-no-sir-three-bags-full-sir,” Vila said. “And it must have done wonders for your libido.”

Avon blinked. 

“D’you think I’d have done anything in a horrible place like that?”

“Knowing you? Of course.” Vila wondered if those tests were wrong, or everyone except Cally cheated on them, or they took turns. Vila thought that even if Avon didn’t want to switch, he’d take switch lessons on general principle. “So you expect me to believe that your flag was at half-staff the whole time you were there?”

“Believe just as you like. But telling me what I’m supposed to enjoy? I find it more amusing to be a pervert than a civil servant.”

“Well, at least I know you made it worthwhile. How much did you rake off?”

“Enough,” Avon said. 

“And you didn’t even bring me a present. Mean, I call that.”

14  
Cally and Jenna shared a shift on alternate Tuesdays; they often used the time to do preventive maintenance on the back-up systems, on the grounds that nobody would walk that far to make fun of their taste in the pop music they blared as loud as they wanted. 

“You look... well-rested,” Jenna said, punching her comrade on the arm. 

{{Not you too.}} 

“It was a successful mission with potential for an ongoing relationship,” Cally said. “I mean, with the Defense Services, of course,” Cally said, spoiling the solemnity of the occasion by giggling.

“About bloody time you did! I’ve been living off the memory of that dodgy currency broker on Gestephon-C for months.”

15  
“What are you working on? None of that looks familiar to me,” Blake asked. 

“Nor to me, at first. I’m figuring it out. I think it has some potential for speeding up re-charge after a weapons discharge. It gives some interesting insights into the mind of whatever sort of engineer built this. And, of course, an hour away from thinking about human beings and their follies is as good as a bank holiday at the seaside.” 

“We’ve just had a holiday!” Blake protested, thinking nonetheless that one always needed to recu-perate after one.

“All right for some. I had some quite delicate work to do.”

“And I had nothing to do but stand there and be humiliated...”

“It’s good for you to see how the other half lives.” 

“Now, that’s a degree of social awareness I shouldn’t have expected of you.”

“I’m always socially aware on my own behalf.” 

Blake crossed his arms, sinking his chin into his chest. “When we were downplanet,” he began. 

“Yes?”

“The situation. Well. Perhaps there may have been something to that questionnaire. As an organ-ising principle for a society, of course it’s quite wrong and will have to be replaced. But there were aspects that... weren’t entirely displeasing. But then again, I’m not sure what would... how I would react,” Blake said. 

Avon shrugged. “Fantasies don’t always pan out as one anticipates. It’s a known risk.”

“I’m not afraid of being hurt...”

“Obviously not,” and then Avon repeated, much more gently, stroking Blake’s cheek with two fin-gertips, “obviously not.”

“But it does rather strain my idea of entertainment...”

“If you know what you’re doing, inflicting pain isn’t necessary. It might even be vulgar, in a way.”

“I know you’d take care of me.”

“Yes,” Avon confessed. “All right. I’ll be there in two hours. Your cabin. Take off your clothes and lie down. Supine. Oh, and it ought to go without saying, don’t touch yourself.” 

Blake reflexively wanted to ask if he got a say in the arrangements, but realised it was rather the point that he didn’t. 

“All right,” he said. “Do whatever you like.” He shivered a little. It was dangerous, giving Avon a blank cheque. But that happened anytime you left your chequebook in the same sector where Avon was. 

16  
Blake waited, eyes closed, imagining a beach scooped out of black basalt. The glittering sand was still hot from the day’s two black suns. In the light of a thin slice of moon, the black sea waves were frilled with silver lace. He saw himself lying there, waiting for the sea to crash, a little higher up than a moment before. It would bear him up, warm firm waves that he would ride. Or it would sweep over him, and one of them was going to happen and it wouldn’t be his doing. It wasn’t like life, where there was no such thing as Fate and so he could never for a moment stop fighting. 

Blake looked down at the tower rising, like a monument of patience, and smiled, thinking that Avon was going to get a right eyeful. Then the door opened. 

Blake got as far as saying “Hullo” when Avon snapped the fingers of the hand that wasn’t holding a pencil torch. All the lights in the cabin, even the pinpoints of the safety lights built into the floor and the ceiling molding, went off. 

There was a tight beam of light for a moment, just long enough for Avon to verify that the layout of the cabin was the same as his own, and to walk to the bed. Blake wasn’t surprised, because Avon had devoted most of four decades to becoming the only person in the room with a pencil torch. He didn’t seem to be carrying anything else, certainly not a large weapon or manacles or a bullwhip or... Blake was not at all sure of the programme. {{Who else would think the highest accolade for a sexual encounter would be “peculiar”?}}

Blake swallowed hard. He was about to shift over to give Avon someplace on the bed to sit, but Avon said, 

“No — stay as you are. Or, not quite. Spread your legs a little more.” 

Avon switched on the torch for a moment, enough to get to the end of the bed while only clipping his leg a little. He sat down at the end of the bed, between the v-shape of Blake’s legs, then turned around to half-kneel. 

“Don’t move,” he said conversationally. “Don’t talk. I’ve resigned myself that a certain amount of noise is inevitable. And doubtless you won’t have the discipline to stop yourself from coming in a disappointingly short time. I shall have to put with it, shan’t I?” 

{{Right, you bastard,}} Blake thought. {{You’ve got me to tie myself up and gag myself and deny myself an orgasm. That’s you all over.}}

Avon bent forward and began to touch Blake. The room was so quiet that Blake could hear the dif-ference in the sound of the slip of Avon’s palms over Blake’s skin and the silence of fingertips. 

“Anything,” Avon said. “You said I could do just as I liked.” 

Blake thought that Avon must have been smirking like a pistachio nut when he said that, but really, he was hushed with reverence. He could feel that Avon’s hands were rougher than they must have been back on Earth, and it warmed Blake a little to think, {{What happened to him, he got that, working for me.}}

“Rich,” Avon said approvingly, and Blake had to agree. He could sense how smooth his skin felt to Avon, how ample the flesh beneath it. Unstinting. 

Like one who has ceased from his exploring, knowing for the first time that he had forgotten to take off his clothes, Avon pushed himself back, keeping one hand loosely around Blake’s hard-on just to encourage the others, and stripped awkwardly having only one hand to work with. Then he lay down over Blake, and slid upward. He looped his leg over the promontory, muttering, “Sidesaddle. Diabolical. I don’t know how girls do it.”

With a hitch, Avon phased their breaths. Not synchronised, but 180 degrees apart, so the wave of one belly surged forward into the cave of ribs, and then retreated to be replaced. When that was done, he put his forearms together and cupped his hands under Blake’s chin {{Like an artichoke,}} Blake thought and then kissed him from a tiny spark of tongue-tips, sliding inexorably into totality, one face eclipsing the other. 

When Avon finally decided to breathe, Blake grinned, wondering if the white flash of his teeth could be seen. {{Well, of course we’re here in the dark. How else would we get the full effect of the ten-metre-high neon sign?}} The things Avon refused to say were ridiculously flattering. 

Avon turned around, sitting awkwardly astride Blake, and wrapped both his hands around both their erections, proving that the Federation grading system was not the only manifestation of inequality in the universe.

{{Sod THIS for a game of soldiers}}, Blake thought, and squeezed his arms around Avon (it took a fraction of a second to make his arms obey him). He sat up, and then wrapped his hands some-where else entirely. Blake would have sworn that Avon positively screamed as Blake bit down at the angle of Avon’s neck and shoulder. 

Partway through their lengthy, lusty orgasms, Blake felt satisfaction about what a mess there’d be to clean up. Then he felt guilty about this anti-social tendency of his until he remembered whose cabin it was.

17  
Blake rolled out of bed, blinking as he dialed the lights up to 10% and then 15%. A somnolent Avon shifted uneasily, clasped the sheet tighter, and mumbled something that sounded to Blake like “20-20. Perhaps 40-20.”


End file.
